IDENTITY CRISIS ISSUE

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to those who suffer in silence

WE MUST LOSE OURSELVES IN ORDER TO FIND OURSELVES

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dmittedly, I’ve lost myself — just like any other person ambling through adulthood. And even with this understanding that losing ourselves is a shared rite of passage, it isn’t a curative balm to sorrow that festers in the darkness.

I’ve always prided myself on an “above and beyond” mantra. For so long, in everything, I exhausted every fibre of my being to wed my value to the externalities of life. After all, wouldn’t the applause from the world drown out my own internal strife?

No matter how many awards, milestones or resume experience came my way, nothing could soothe not feeling secure in my identity.

I retreated from it all ­­— letting go of everything for a while simply to sit with myself. I rediscovered who I was and who I wasn’t. Bit by bit, I questioned every experience that shaped me into who I was. Do I truly beleive in God or did I just grow up in a Southern household? Do I work hard because I genuinely want to or am I following the footsteps of the women in my life? Do I actually want to be in college?

I am not alone when it comes to college facing me against my own reflection. Like others, Florida A&M University has helped me understand that my greatest simplicity was found with making peace with all my complexity. So, to those facing an identity crisis, this issue is for you.

Gently, I pieced back together all my experiences to create a new mosaic for my identity. What parts of myself would I rather shine the most? I want to be seen as a light, as a kind spirit and as a bundle of warmth way before I’m recognized for my resume. I actually realized that I don’t With love and an abundance of light, dream of labor; I dream of impact. Oh, and after years of hating my natural hair, i committed to the big chop and now I love it.

Mia Diamond

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he phrase, “we don’t talk about politics at home,” rings throughout the household of many Generation Zers who face a generational divide with their parents’ politics.

During Donald Trump’s tenure as president, his ideology largely impacted how American Boomers and Generation X converse with their family. With controversial topics like abortion, gun reform and climate justice leading the political agenda, a fractured relationship dynamic was unveiled as conservative parents opposed their children’s liberal leanings. Gen Z — who have mobilized climate change strikes and Black Lives Matter protests —is now leading a wave of divergence and ditching their parent’s politics for a more progressive future.

Garcia is a first-generation college student at Florida State University, and they identify as an anti-capitalist leftist. They’re an active member of VegFSU and Students for a Democratic Society, which are two of FSU’s organizations that provide a safe space for those looking to support intersectional justice.

As Carolina Garcia grew up in St. Augustine, Florida, they weren’t exposed to many marginalized groups and believe their radical views are a result of the change in their surroundings. “I think that college has been one of the main reasons that I have become more radical,” Garcia recalled. “St. Augustine is a predominantly white heteronormative space — which isn’t uncommon for Florida — but it was just so inhospitable that so much internalized homophobia and misogyny thrived.”

“It’s such a different experience to read about radical theory and queer theory, but I feel like being a first-gen amplifies all of that so much,” Garcia says. “I am experiencing the brunt of the intersections of all of my identities in a way that I don’t have much guidance on. I realize how significant my college education has been in forming my identity. I’ve been thinking a lot lately on how people who don’t have access to higher education are denied access to exploring identity in a school setting.”

“Finally being in a space where I was around other marginalized people and understanding that our struggle is collective and bonded was undeniable for me,” they said. As a first-generation student, experiences like joining VegFSU to discuss environmental injustice and having access to queer radical theory were detrimental in Garcia’s growth and knowledge.

Garcia continued to share that their family doesn’t quite understand their struggle and they’re not comfortable engaging in conversations about politics with their family, but they don’t entirely blame their parents for their views. With their family immigrating from Colombia, Garcia understands that “their conservative ideology is a means of survival.”

Exposure to similar mindsets while at college isn’t a sole experience by Garcia, since Florida A&M University graduate Imani Hutchinson can also relate. Hutchinson is currently getting her graduate degree at Howard University, and her time at two historically Black colleges has impacted her politics to lean more toward socialism.

“I guess I always considered myself to be a Democrat, but I never had an idea where I was on the [political] spectrum until I got to college,” Hutchinson said. “Getting more into Black women’s issues like the maternal mortality rate pushed me over to the edge of socialism. Specifically, and more importantly, [my politics shifted] when I experienced my campus’ response to sexual assault.”

During her time at FAMU, Hutchinson served as the president of the FAMU chapter of Planned Parenthood Generation Action.

Although she’s still figuring out exactly where her political ideologies lie, she is certain that her parents’ politics do not align with hers.

She shared that her father — whose views lean closer to a moderate Democrat — isn’t fully on board with police abolition or strict gun reform, compared to Hutchinson’s more left-leaning views.

Like Garcia and Hutchinson’s experiences, this shift leftward is often the trickle-down result of liberal viewpoints on social issues being more common in curriculums. For Abi Shinshine, moving out of her hometown and graduating from a private Christian school was the beginning push that began to shift her political beliefs. Although Shinshine was born in 1995 to classify her as a millennial, it’s clear that the widening gap isn’t limited to Gen Z-ers.

“I think any Christian school, Pensacola Christian Academy [and its respective university] specifically, did such a good job at creating such an insulated bubble for the folks who lived on campus,” Shinshine said. “I felt like they never got out of being exposed to that belief, and I was fortunate to not live on campus. [Attending PCA] certainly influenced and probably shaped my entire worldview.”

Generation Z and Millenials with left-leaning p politics have overall developed less trust in institutions and created an intersectional bond against exploitation and universal capitalism. No matter how many explainers are written about talking politics at the dinner table, there’s still going to be a divide between left-leaning youth and their conservative parents. Like Shinstine, Garcia and Hutchinson, they find themselves to be in a similar position as many Generation Z-ers: the sole radical member of the family.

Noella

Willliams

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rowing up, Lendsey Augustin had a hard time finding freedom. Coming from a Haitian family who placed high standards on her and being an only child was a battle. “I suppressed a lot of my emotions growing up and didn’t have an outlet to vent,” Augustin said, recalling her struggle to find her individuality.

Today, she says that moving away to college has been the best decision she’s ever made.

“I sought so much validation from them and it wasn’t until I left for college that I realized how much of an impact they had on me. The daughter that they try to mold me into is not who I am, nor is it who I want to be,” she said.

Kayla Delcham remembers her father telling her he was “skeptical and disappointed” when she didn’t follow through with his vision. “I came to college with the intention of majoring in political science to become a lawyer because that’s what my dad wanted to do when he was younger but he missed his opportunity,” she said. “I was definitely heavily influenced [by my father] and since coming to FAMU, I realized that this wasn’t the path that I wanted to go down, so I decided to study journalism.”

Delcham believes that she is going to chase her dreams despite what her family may think of her path. Delcham explains, “I realized that this is my life and I gotta live it for myself.”

In one recent College Pulse survey of roughly 14,500 college students across the U.S., three in five respondents said their relationship with their parents has improved since they started college — possibly pointing to children discovering their authentic identity. This research further suggests that over time parents embrace their role as advisers rather than trying to hold on to their dominance into college.

When coming to college, students are facing the struggle of making life-changing decisions with thousands of dollars on the line and parents feeling entitled to these decisions.

The pressure of social expectations, prestige colleges, and parents can become unbearable, leading to mental strife.

Valerie Jean feels pressure from her parents to even pursue a college education. “My parents are immigrants, so they didn’t have the opportunity to go to college. They have seen how going to college or not going to college has had a huge impact on someone’s life. They want me to go because they couldn’t and in a way, I believe they’re living through me.” Like Jean’s experience, parents often believe that they are trying to create a better dynamic for their children and give their children experiences that they were deprived of.

So, what happens when you finally realize that your dreams differ from what your parents want? Like Lendsey, Kayla and throngs of college students across the nation, you decide to finally relinquish your parent’s dreams.

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ana Connelly, a junior accounting student at Florida A&M University, feels as though her assault silenced her. After connecting with a guy on Tinder, she decided to meet with him in person because she trusted his seemingly genuine persona. “I felt like right after it happened, I did something wrong,” she said.

Like many survivors, Connelly felt less inclined to seek resources because of the overwhelming feeling that her story wasn’t valid or worthy of being told. According to statistics, in America, every 68 seconds a sexual assault occurs. After undergoing such a distressing experience, it is critical for survivors to receive accessibility to resources to help recover mentally.

Lauryn Frazier, now 20, was only 12 years old when “it” happened. “I was sleeping and felt something weird on me,” she remembers. After a night at her friend’s house, Lauryn became suspicious of an adult male presence. After being touched inappropriately, she remained adamant about telling her parents because she felt that the only way out of guilt was to express her innocence. Weeks after the traumatic event, Lauryn insisted that everything would be okay, but starving herself became a sign that the aftermath of the assault was more than she could imagine.

Upon recent reports from the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network (RAINN), 48% of survivors were sleeping or performing another activity when home, 29% were traveling to and from work or school, and 7% were attending school.

Warriors Against Rape, also known as W.A.R., is an organization focused on supporting survivors and educating the campus on sexual assault. For Frazier and Connelly, it has become a safe haven. “I didn’t know much about Dismantling the stigma survivors face while providing resources has become a saving grace for Frazier, Connelly and many more survivors who bear the brunt of having to deal with their experience for the rest of their lives.

Mariana Calvo, a sexual assault advocate and Refuge House employee, devotes her time to being the voice for those who have had their voices silenced. “Our nation’s criminal justice system is infamous for failing to believe survivors, along with prosecuting their offenders,” said Calvo. RAINN estimates that for every 1,000 rapes, 384 are reported to police, 57 result in an arrest, 11 are referred for prosecution, seven result in a felony conviction, and six result in incarceration. These jarring statistics point to longstanding mistrust between survivors and the punitive system.

Despite it all, survivors are championing their own journeys, creating safe spaces and holding institutions accountable. For survivors like Frazier and Connelly, advocates like Calvo and countless others, their stories and advocacy empower their path to their healing.

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’ve been afraid to openly say it,” said Micah Barkley, a freshman at Florida A&M University, who was recently diagnosed with severe anxiety disorder. “People think those facing anxiety daily are overdramatic or that it’s never that serious or that we’re victimizing ourselves every chance we get.”

Barkley, like many who struggle with their mental health, often feels as if the colloquial conversation around mental health often distorts her experience. In highly social settings, such as college, she, unfortunately, experiences a lack of validation or acknowledgment of her symptoms. “I simply try not to tell others because it is common that they think if you act normal you don’t genuinely suffer from it. Sometimes I’ll say my anxiety is on 10 as a joke aloud, but it is really how I feel.”

According to Mental Health America, African Americans believe that mild depression or anxiety would be considered “crazy” in their social circles. Many also believe that conversations regarding mental illness would not feel appropriate among their families.

Barkley, who is African American, also feels like she can’t fully express her struggles to her family.

“I cannot open up to my family about it because they are heavily religious. I feel like if I talk to them about my anxiety they’re not going to take me to the doctor. It’ll be, ‘read this verse or that verse.’ Sometimes I need to talk to someone other than God, so I keep it to myself.”

Jessica Robinson, a mental health therapist based in Detroit, has seen how society’s remarks regarding mental health directly impact her patients. “I definitely see a lack of comfortability when talking about their symptoms. Just not wanting to be judged or viewed as crazy,” Robinson said. “Sometimes they’ll make little jokes regarding being in a nuthouse, you know when you feel like you have to make the joke before someone else does.”

With flawed depictions of mental disorders in the media, Dr. Patrice Berry has witnessed patients be incorrectly labeled.

“Individuals with mental health disorders are more likely to be a victim of crime than to be a violent perpetrator.”

Studies show more than half of those with a mental illness never seek help, fearing the labels society perpetuates. The stigma has caused people with mental illness to be deprived of secure jobs, safe housing, and satisfactory health care.

Laurell Rhymes, an Orlando, Florida native, went through a deep stage of depression during her time at Valencia College and found it hard opening up to her loved ones. “I was at a point where I felt like I was failing myself. During that time I told my family, I was seeking help from a therapist and they asked why I would spend any money on that.”

Therapists like Robinson and Berry aim to spread vital knowledge on their TikTok platforms about mental health and the Black community for those that don’t have access to resources. In their videos, they discuss generational traumas involving mental health.

The stigmas around mental health also particularly impact Black men and how comfortable they feel seeking help. Statistics say only 26.4% of Black and Hispanic men ages 18 to 44 who experienced daily feelings of anxiety or depression were likely to have used mental health services, compared to 45.4% of non-Hispanic White men with similar feelings.

Cornell Jones, a psychology student, has heard the stereotypes revolving around mental health starting from the end of elementary school into middle school. “A lot of the time people think you’re trying to do it for attention, or you’re lying, or just shy. It’s more than that, there are layers to it,” Jones said. “It does hurt when they try to tell me I’m not like this. I’m like it’s the truth. I didn’t choose this, why would I?” For Jones, his mental health is also at the intersection of his identity. He says, “As someone who is queer presenting, it always rolls back around to ‘man up, you’re a man, you shouldn’t be dealing with this.’ I hear that constantly because of what people’s idea of a man is.”

Despite it all, the 18-yearold has hopes to get into therapy and has healthy coping mechanisms to help him through his day-to-day anxiety. “My anxieties and fears, I channel them into my creative processes, like writing. I put it all into my own material with the hope to also help others.”

The stigma surrounding mental illness has been a pervasive force and one that has greatly impacted mental health survivors.

While great strides have been made in the fight for mental health awareness, there is still a substantial amount of work that needs to be done. The stereotypes associated with mental health conditions add yet another layer of obstacles to the existing symptoms people are already managing.

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rain up a child in a way they should go and when he is old, he will not stray.”

From my upbringing, this scripture is an axiom for every Black household in the Bible Belt. I can’t quite remember a time when I wasn’t being subconsciously trained with Christian principles during my childhood.

Gospel music blared non-stop in the background in my house, praise dance rehearsals and Wednesday bible study comprised much of my weekday activities, and by the age of eight, I committed to the rite of baptism to prove my budding faith in God — and also experience being submerged underwater like all the big kids in the congregation. The church house was my prime social sphere, my runway for my newest tulle and satin dresses paired with Mary Janes, and my place where I discovered who I was and later on who I wasn’t.

As I got older, I faced Sundays with less anticipation to see my church friends and more moral conflict with sermons from the altar. I wrestled with scriptures that destined members of the LGBTQ+ community for eternal damnation and purported beliefs that exiled women from equality. Once I was hours away from home in college, every inch of me that rebelled against my religion unfurled into a being that sought a new form of my faith.

In an era of waning conservatism, seismic sociopolitical shifts and vast access to information, Gen Z is exploring faith outside of their households and their churches to find a spiritual path that fits them or cast aside the path altogether.

Jeremiah Nichols grew up in a Christian family of three ministers under the Church of God In Christ, a predominantly Black denomination. In high school, he attended a Catholic institution and with this lifestyle of monthly Mass and a Christian curriculum he began to question the concept of biblical inerrancy and what he perceived as fear-based scriptures. After the passing of his brother, Jeremiah sought a new spiritual horizon and his introduction to African American history in a college course led him to African spirituality.

“There are three basic elements of African spirituality: the existence of a universal God with minor deities that move natural phenomena on Earth, the veneration of ancestors and African metaphysics,” the 19-year-old says.

“In addition to all this is knowing thyself and understanding who you are and how you can be in tune with the universe.”

Today, Jeremiah’s spirituality looks like meditations and affirmations in the morning in lieu of Sunday service. He believes that this route has aligned him closely with his ancestors, especially incorporating the practice of ancestral veneration. “Creating shrines for past ancestors is huge for me now. If you’ve ever been with family and they pour water or alcohol on the ground and they say ‘This is for my dead homies,’ that is actually a form of African veneration. It’s our way of paying respect for those who guide us.

Noella Williams drifted from her household religion after a long bout of depression, her parents’ tumultuous divorce and discovering that she was bisexual. Now identifying as agnostic and refusing an “exact label,” the 22-year-old conceals her lack of belief to avoid becoming persona non grata in her largely Christian family but also recognizes that her innate feminism has long protested against the principles of her former faith.

“One big ideal that I used to feel morally conflicted with was how women were treated,” Noella says. She recalls the teeming sexism that roamed the halls of the Christian school that she attended from pre-kindergarten to eighth grade. “I remember our principals used to carry around the basket of pens for the girls to mend outfits if there was too much cleavage or slits were too high above the knee. We also had a book that we had to buy in middle school that discussed how women are to submit to their husbands and how our bodies were solely for child-bearing. My feminist brain at this time started to question this. This was the turning point of religion for me.’”

For Noella, leaving her religion meant freedom to exist without being pressed against archaic standards of what femininity looks like. “It’s comforting finding myself rather than feeling like I was told who to be in this toned-down version of me in Christianity,” she says. Leaning into her intuition and connection with the universe at large, Noella continues, “I don’t have a higher being that I call to, but I feel like if I want to manifest something and put it in the universe I can. If I believe in myself enough to where I meditate on it with a clear conscience, I can make that happen.”

As for me, the chilling power of gospel music still swells my inner sanctuary and my novel penchant for shadow work comparably does the same. I believe in the power of affirmations with as much fervency as my enduring love for prayer. To be forthright, I can’t quite label my walk with my faith and like many Gen Zers, I’m ambling along my own religious path.

By: K h e d g e n W i l l i s

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ho am I?” is a question that ponders through the minds of those in the LGBTQ+ community when trying to figure out their identity. Coming out is a nerve-wracking experience when it comes to the unwavering thoughts of how your family and close friends may react, the uncomfortable stares and comments you may receive and the bravery needed to be authentically yourself.

College is notably a space to find one’s identity and for many, it’s their time to uncover who they have always been.

“I think it was time to live my truth in every space and aspect of life. Hiding my truth got old,” said Keziah Dilworth, a senior at Florida A&M University. Dilworth came out as a lesbian after coming to the realization that she was trying to portray herself as someone she wasn’t. “I definitely think college made me come into my own and find my identity,” said Dilworth. Although she knew she identified as a lesbian since high school, her religious background made her hesitant to openly disclose her sexuality.

For the 21-year-old, returning to her home in Austin, Texas, meant hiding the new version of herself that she uncovered at school.

“I remember going home for holidays and I would have to leave my real wardrobe here at school. I kept acceptable pieces of clothing just to wear around my family to avoid uneasy looks and prying into my life,” said Dilworth.

Although her family had uncomfortable conversations regarding her sexuality, Dilworth believes they are still trying to understand and accept her more.

Chazriq Clarke, a senior performing arts and business student, felt as if he was labeled as gay before he even disclosed his sexuality to anyone. “I feel like it got to a point where it was very evident, even though I never fully expressed who I was,” said Clarke. Even amidst the assumptions, the 21-year-old remained silent about his sexuality as he came from a Jamaican family where homophobia is embedded in the culture.

At college, Clarke faced yet another crossroad when his assumed sexuality was used against him on campus. When attempting to join an organization, he was told that him possible identifying as gay would be a determining factor in his acceptance.

“I haven’t said anything to anybody, I haven’t done anything to anyone. Why is this the motive against me?,” Clarke remembered asking himself. After voicing his concerns to his parents, he was dismayed when even they believed it was justified.

“It hurt me really deeply and I couldn’t tell him at the time,” said Barreto. Three years later, when she turned 15 years old she confessed to her father at dinner; the emotional rollercoaster of thoughts and feelings was going through her head. “I was trembling,” she recalled.

Later in his collegiate career, Clarke finally revealed to his family that he identified as gay and, like much LGBTQ youth, he was kicked out of his home. The mental and emotional turmoil overwhelmed Clarke but he’s been able to overcome it all. Clarke now serves the campus as the King of Orange & Green but even the coveted position comes with its own challenges.

Coming to college, she began to feel a really strong queer presence that she had never seen.

“There were people around me who were doing what I thought I was doing in high school, by talking about gender expression and being authentically themselves,” said Barreto.

While he feels his sexuality is a small part of who he is as a person, Clarke feels as if he has been tokenized for it. With his strong presence on campus, other students tend to only use him for that one aspect. “I dislike it because I feel as if I am a very complex person,” said Clarke.

Donte Barreto is a 22-year-old non-binary transwoman who also likes to refer to herself as a queer woman. “I first came out as gay at 12 years old and it was a relatively easy process for me. I have been very blessed my entire life with being accepted,” said Barreto. “The people around me love me for who I am.”

When coming out you can receive positive and negative outcomes. Around the time Chickfil-A gained publicity for donating to charities with anti-LGBTQ stances, her father said he understood the reasoning and understood where they were coming from.

After a year of identifying as non-binary, Baretto still felt hurt when being called “he” or “sir.” There was a part of her that still wanted to feel secure in her femininity.

Eventually, this pushed her to begin transitioning. Most of her challenges come from her anxiety because she has been taught about how tough society can be on people living outside of the norm.

“You can’t ignore that trans women have been murdered and transwomen of color face adversity higher than anyone else,” she said, pointing to how transwomen are often fetishized. “I do try to present very outwardly and try to be who I am and I understand that it attracts attention, but sometimes that’s the type of attention frightening and it’s the type of gaze that you don’t.”

To those thinking of coming out in college, Clarke said, ”Stay true to who you are, it’s gonna be hard. Yeah, I had some scars and bruises but I survived.” Even though being a part of the LGBTQ+ community can come with backlash from friends, family, and even people you don’t know, college has been the perfect haven for many to live in their truth.

The Polarity of Sex

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by: Dejania Oliver

ollege students sign up for more than classes when they fill out their enrollment forms. They sign up for mistakes, stress, fun, and in some cases, sexual exploration. It is a time when young adults indulge in sexual pleasure and learn about their bodies. However, this sexual awakening manifests in many different ways for students, and for some, it doesn’t manifest at all.

For some, college is their first experience with witnessing sex without limits. It can be scary diving headfirst into a world of pleasure as society has always perceived sex as an immoral act.

Alice Rose was a college student before dropping out after three semesters in 2016.

She was diagnosed at 18 with sex addiction and coming to college only fueled it. She says getting sex in college was easy, and she had different guys with her every weekend.

“The worst instance was when a random guy paid for my bus ticket so I can have sex with another random guy in Texas,” Rose said. “My friends stopped talking to me for a while because of me going down this path. It ruined me a lot.”

Growing up, Rose was taught that you date to love and she cites this as the beginning of her skewed perception of sex. “I associated sex with love. That negatively affected me a lot in high school. It basically became my love language. I wanted to feel wanted, or anything really. It f*cked me up in college.”

Some college students choose not to engage in sex at all, as one 21-year-old senior at Florida A&M University. She has decided to wait until marriage, a decision she is very sure about. “[Sex] to me is something to be shared with someone you care about,” she said. “I used to say love, but I learned that you could feel strongly for someone and it not necessarily be love.”

“I made it pretty clear with my friends that I didn’t want to have sex and the men that I’ve been with were told from the jump.”

She is not the only college student to make this kind of choice. There are young adults who choose not to delve into sex, whether it is religious or personal reasons. The 2018 National College Health Assessment found that only 66% of students had sex that year, which decreased from 72% in 2000. The reality is it is perfectly normal to not have sex in college. However, it can be hard for people who choose to abstain because of society’s apparent obsession with sex.

While abstaining from sex is a valid choice, college can be the perfect time to start exploring for others. Without a guardian to dictate what you can and cannot do, it makes it easier to start sexual exploration.

Research suggests that the average age of first intercourse in America is roughly 17 years old. For students who feel inexperienced, there is a pressing need to “catch up” with their peers.

“I made it pretty clear with my friends that I didn’t want to have sex and the men that I’ve been with were told from the jump,” she continued. “But I definitely would be asked multiple times why I can’t just do a little this or a little that. Some just asked why I can’t just have sex outright.”

However, there can be complex aspects to sex as well. Some experiences aren’t always positive, and young people who are away from home for the first time can be led astray by the promise of pleasure. Hookup culture has furthered society’s obsession with sex and it can lead to dangerous associations with the act for young people.

Sexual liberation is a beautiful thing, but it can be a reason why young students feel they have to do it. Being in a space where everyone wants to fit in, like college, can aid these feelings.

“Because the world excepts me to be liberated, they expect me to have more sex, not less.”

“People are trying to be more sexually liberated and there is nothing wrong with that. But I also feel like it’s leading to more sex addiction,” Rose said. “Because the world excepts me to be liberated, they expect me to have more sex, not less. It’s very hard especially when it is hard to get help for this condition.”

THE RISE IN

BBL CULTURE BY: DEVANI ALLEN

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razilian Butt Lifts, also known as BBLs, have taken over the cosmetic field drastically in the past couple of years and have become one of the most dangerous procedures to date.

The surgery, which produces an hourglass frame, removes fat from various parts of the body and injects it into the buttocks. With BBLs appealing to women, there has been a surge in Black women undergoing this procedure.

According to research, BBLs are the fastest growing cosmetic procedure and the number of butt lifts performed has increased by 77.6% since 2015.

For so long, social media and reality television have glamorized women with hourglass figures such as Nicki Minaj and the Kardashians. This idolization quickly became the conventional body standard and led to a rise in the plastic surgery culture. However, some women say celebrities and television never quite influenced their decision to get their BBL. A 26-year-old mom of one, who wishes to not be identified, said her experience with a BBL was great and she doesn’t regret a thing about it. “I got surgery because it’s something I wanted to do for myself,” she said. “Nobody influences me on what to do with my body, I did this for me and I love the results surgery yielded, regardless of what anyone else thinks.”

Aside from the glaring health risks of BBLs, they are financially costly. Research shows within the US on average the majority of butt lifts cost between $2000 and $12,000, with an average cost of around $6,500. While these prices reflect stateside costs, BBLs performed in other countries are significantly cheaper and cost on average $4,500.

Gabrielle Washington, a 30-year-old, chose to have surgery abroad like many women because it was the best financial decision.

“I did my research and going to the Dominican Republic was my best bet,” Washington said. “I wanted my surgery done quickly and I couldn’t afford any of my local doctors, I have to say though.

I do regret it sometimes because if anything happened I wouldn’t have had anyone with me.”

Like Washington laments, the risks associated with BBLs are grave. For one in 3,000 women, this procedure is fatal with the leading cause being fat embolisms. As fat is transferred, it can enter the bloodstream and block blood vessels. With such a high risk of death, it begs the question of why women take the risk.

For some women though, a BBL is a mommy makeover alternative when diets and working out with children can be very time-consuming.

Natasha Jones, a 28-year-old mom of two, said she got surgery after realizing working out and eating right wouldn’t fit into her schedule. “I always told myself after two kids I was going to get surgery if I didn’t like the way my body looked,” Jones said. “I’m happy that I feel confident in my body after so long of not feeling good enough.”

Allen Jacobs, a board-certified psychologist, believes the pressures of social media can make it hard for women to resist. “I think there is a societal pressure to look a certain way. Society benefits from teaching Black women not to love themselves,” Allen said, pointing to how insecurity can breed materialism. “[Black women] were not taught that happiness is not something you can buy. If it is not already within you, it does not come from material things.”

So, the question is, have BBLs become an epidemic in the Black community? That answer depends on who you ask.

AM I BLACK I

ENOUGH? BY: MICAH BARKLEY

am a dark skin Black girl that grew up in a predominantly white neighborhood, but my fami- ly always kept me grounded in my roots and never let me become culturally unaware.

I never had an issue knowing if I was Black enough growing up because, for the most part, I was the only ounce of Black that my neighbors and peers knew of.

Coming to Florida A&M University, though, I have experienced these accusations of not being Black enough. I prefer international music over Lil Durk and I didn’t know most of the Florida rap music that is played at kickbacks. It can feel as if my music preferences were grounds for the revocation of my proverbial “Black card.” I would never think that the question “Am I Black enough?” would become a part of my internal dialogue, especially when attending a predominantly Black institution.

Unfortunately, many students on campus from varied backgrounds also endure these same thoughts.

Cordell Jones, a freshman at FAMU, says that many of the comments that Black people would use to differentiate him would concern him “code-switching and assimilating in some instances.” He continued on by explaining that when he did change his tone or his style, it would have other black people ask, “Are you Black? Are you sincerely a part of the community?”

Not only does the question surface from the way some Black people deviate from community norms, but it also reveals itself through varying skin complexions. Lela Porter, a freshman at FAMU, explains that she knows all too well about this experience.

As a light-skinned woman who has a white mother and Black father, she acknowledges her privileges as a Black person with a lighter complexion who has navigated the world without the overt encounters with racism that darker skinned Black people.

However, Porter often feels a rift within her culture and wonders if she’s Black enough.

Samiri Hernandez-Hiraldo, an anthropologist and professor at FAMU, says that colorism has sparked division and social and political conflict within the Black community. Hernandez-Hiraldo explains that it divides us in “keeping a sense of community.” She goes on to explain that since Eurocentric features were valued back during segregation and slavery, those who are Black with lighter complexions and Eurocentric features are now given better opportunities and set to a higher value than those of darker complexions.

“In high school, I was the president of the Black Student Union and did my best to lift the voices of the Black students at my school,” Porter said. She believed that experience allowed her to feel more solidarity amongst her culture. As colorism is often a divisive aspect within the Black community, Porter believes the first step to healing is realizing how we have internalized favoritism of lighter skin colors — such as fetishizing mixed children.

It is evident that going to a predominantly Black school or existing in predominantly Black spaces can spark an internal struggle with one’s “Blackness.” But how exactly do we find a resolution?

By: Sidney Berry

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iscovering your self-identity is quite complex. Gen Zers, who are seen as the most diverse, fluid, and self-aware generation to date, have even harder circumstances due to the era of social media. These digital natives have never known a world without platforms like Instagram and Twitter where likes, comments, and engagement are arbitrary measures of social status. Over time, many Gen Zers feel the need to step away from this altered self-perception and their internet identities.

For college sophomore Zoe Hightower, social media has been a consistent part of her life since elementary school. What started as a fun way to share special moments became a chore to keep up with over the recent years. “I feel like as I’ve gotten older and really when I came to college that I started caring about my image heavily and felt I have to meet this certain standard.”

Her story isn’t uncommon. Many Gen Zers were introduced to social media well before the recommended age of 13. According to a 2020 Thorn research study, 40% of children under 13 use social media platforms. Early exposure to these apps means early access to unrealistic beauty standards, excessive materialism, and cyberbullying.

Hightower expressed that her social media use became constant and she soon felt herself slipping away as she aimed to uphold a certain image on Instagram. Studies show that 88% of women compare themselves to images they see on social media. The pressure and comparative nature of social media can lead to self-doubt, feelings of inadequacy, and even depression.

“Social media can contribute to feelings of depression, especially when content on social media is used to compare yourself with others or used as a tool to examine and judge your past,” says licensed clinical psychologist Maria Mouratidis. Psychologists suggest that a digital detox, a period of time with no social media use, can improve one’s perception of self-worth, lower the looming “FOMO,” and enhance self-discovery.

Getting a job as a camp counselor at a Christian-based camp was the catalyst for Hightower’s digital detox. Over the span of six weeks, she was on her device no more than 12 times. “Stepping away from social media made me ask, ‘Who are you?,’ ‘Who do you want to be?,’ and when people look at you, ‘What can they say that you value?,’” she continued.“I feel like the biggest thing I realized also is the first thing I am is a follower of Christ.”

For many Gen Zers, putting down the phone is a harder task than most. Hightower explained that if it wasn’t for her job requirement, she would’ve never been able to live out her hiatus. “I’m such a wishy-washy person. I probably would’ve tried, but then got back on ten hours later,” she said. “I’m really grateful for the experience because it helped me find myself again and what I want to tie my identity to and regain parts of myself I felt I lost.”

Cayla Goff has dealt with her fair share of the ups and downs of social media. Goff appreciates the positive aspects of these mass communicating platforms, yet feels the culture of social media has taken a turn for the worst. “You see so many comments about what people say about Lil Nas or Cardi B, just because they’re being themselves,” she said, pointing to the hyper-criticism on the internet. “People always have something to say and I just don’t feel like dealing with it.”

Goff even noticed herself beginning to be consumed by the comparison embedded into social platforms. “For a while, I was insecure. You see the type of people who get the most likes, especially Instagram models, and I like, ‘Oh, I don’t have that type of body shape,’” she said.

A Huffington Post poll found that 60% of social media users reported that it has impacted their self-esteem in a negative way and 51% say social media has made them feel more self-conscious about their appearance. The increasingly growing obsession with internet fame and the allure of “IG baddies” have shifted the way society perceives beauty.

Many young girls and women often feel pressured to achieve unrealistic body types and to post sexualized photos in order to receive praise online. “I wanted to look like these Instagram models. I feel like likes and comments were all I cared for,” Goff said. With trends driving engagement on the platform, Goff only used to post pictures of herself in fashionable clothes and strayed away from posting photos in business professional attire.

“I wanted to look like these Instagram models. I feel like likes and comments were all I cared for.”

After taking a three-week hiatus from all social platforms, she began feeling more like herself offline. Time away from the socials allowed Goff to deal with her insecurities. Goff said she learned to stop comparing herself and her situation to others and more importantly, found her identity. With time for self-evaluation, She even realized that she was unhappy with her career path and decided to make a change. “I feel like I definitely found myself,” she said. “Part of it had to do with switching my major and finding my niche.”

Since her detox, she has continued spending less time on social media — spending around 1-2 hours a day on social platforms — resulting in less self-doubt and more self-discovery. “I’ve been especially working on my relationship with God too, it has really helped me be more comfortable with myself and not get too wrapped up in social media and just finding a way to use it in a positive manner,” she said.

It has been reported that in 2020, there were over 3.6 billion social media users worldwide and that it’s projected to increase to almost 4.41 billion in 2025. With the decline in social media usage nowhere in sight, social media users are bound to reevaluate their consumption.

DIARY OF A MASC-PRESENTING

Black Woman By: Kayla Delcham

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s a child, I always felt that there was something about me that differed from the other girls grew up with. There was a sense of isolation from the rest of my peers that I could never explain. However, these differences were never directly pointed out to me until I was asked the most life-altering question I have ever been asked.

“Do you want to be a d*ke?,” my mom said to

my eleven-year-old self as I challenged her to wear gym shorts and a t-shirt instead of the dresses that she bought me. I can recall this day like it was yesterday. The level of confusion and embarrassment I experienced would never be matched. Not only did this question catch me by surprise, but this was the first time I blatantly realized that I defied what is perceived to be a stereotypical Black girl in society. After my mom asked me that question, I went on my phone and googled what the word “d*ke’’ meant. This is when my true identity crisis began.

As a result of being asked that question, I spent the duration of my middle school years trying to suppress all of the masculine characteristics that I may have had. I started wearing more dresses and skirts. I started to engage in romantic relationships with boys.

And most importantly, I made sure that any chance I got I was letting people know that I was not a member of the LGBTQ+ community. This method was working for me because not only did my mom never bring it up again, but the boys in my class started to notice me for my looks.

Externally, I finally thought that I fit into “the box.”

However, I still felt that lingering sense of isolation because I knew that internally this was not who I wanted to be. However, I accepted this version of myself because I thought that I was no longer was walking around with a target on my forehead that let me and other people know that I was different.

However, even my best efforts to hide my true self weren’t sufficient, I again was asked that heart-wrenching question by one of my peers.

Again.

After I had tried my hardest to be like the other girls in my class.

Again.

As soon as I thought I was making “progress” to be the young woman I thought I was supposed to be, again, asked one of my classmates, ”Do you want to be a d*ke?”

After this encounter, I began to ask myself this question often throughout my freshman year and I started to believe it. I once again thought I was becoming who I was supposed to be. When I entered my sophomore year, I began feeling more comfortable in my masculinity, maybe a little too comfortable. I started to refer to myself as this derogatory label because I was so eager to finally belong to a group of people. So eager, that I didn’t mind defiling or demeaning my character.

The stigmas behind being a “d*ke” were to be hyper-masculine and if you displayed any signs of femininity then your authenticity and sexuality would be questioned. I felt so pressured by these stereotypes that I was ashamed of my feminine side and tried to hide it from my peers, especially the girls that I was in romantic relationships with.

Being in a lesbian relationship as a masc-presenting female can be a battle in itself. Through my experiences, the girls that I dated also encouraged this hyper-masculine persona that I displayed. I was a young girl, still trying to locate my place in society as a woman, and enduring the pressure to play the role of a man in relationships prolonged my self-discovery process. I was expected to provide, protect and serve the girls with no reciprocation. This issue stems from the stereotype that relationships must consist of one dominant and one submissive partner. Most of all, the notion that dominance is correlated with masculinity is the largest problem in itself.

“You’re not a boy,” my parents would say.

As a community, we must break away from the heteronormative stereotypes that are placed in society. When I started presenting myself in a more masculine fashion, my family struggled to acknowledge and approve of this side of me.

“You’re not a boy,” my parents would say. The gender roles that my parents grew up learning and functioning in were now being forced on me.

They made me feel like I didn’t belong because I did not conform to the natural standards of what a black woman was to them. This furthered my confusion because when I finally thought I reached a point of authenticity, the people I sought approval from more than anyone in the world did not accept me.

I was now faced with an external crisis because within my social life, I was forced to be hypermasculine, but in my family life, I had to flip the switch so that they were comfortable. At this point in my life, I was so worried about pleasing other people, that I forgot to live for myself and be comfortable in my skin. It was not until I left this environment that I started to live for myself.

Even until this day, I struggle with where I fit into this world as a black woman. Especially since cutting my hair off, I have been enduring an internal psychological battle with myself to convince myself that even without my hair, I can still maintain my sense of femininity. However, since coming to college and being exposed to all different shapes and forms of beautiful black women, I have realized that there is more than one way to identify as a black lesbian in society. I do not have to conform to the hyper-masculine stigma that has been placed on me.

Looking back on that hyper-masculinity crisis that I was having as a young teenage girl, I laugh because standing here now, I see so much beauty in my feminine and masculine sides. I have since I have become more comfortable expressing all aspects of myself.

So to answer the notorious question, no, I do not want to be a d*ke. I do not want to be confined by any label that makes me feel like I am trapped to dress and act a certain way. I am a proud Black lesbian who has found beauty and power in my versatility. I hope this story encourages young masc-presenting lesbians to find courage in expressing their feminine side, and not let the closed-minded people in society let them feel like anything less than the women because of their presentation.